


Unhurried

by Roselightfairy



Series: Finding a Voice: OCs and Extras [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/F, Old Married Couple, Retirement, Reunion, Valinor, background Legolas/Gimli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24501016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: “You did not abandon your kingdom,” Siril says.  Laerwen has said nothing of the sort, but why waste the words, when they both know what she cannot bring herself to voice aloud?Laerwen laughs, but her voice and her lips quaver.  “How do you know that?”A life of peace and safety does not come easily after thousands of years of duty and strife. Siril tries to help her wife ease into her retirement.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: Finding a Voice: OCs and Extras [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2054061
Comments: 7
Kudos: 8





	Unhurried

**Author's Note:**

> A little extra to follow _Ever Changing, Ever Climbing._ I wrote it for Femslash February, actually, but couldn't post it because the main story wasn't finished yet, so now I can put it up at last.

The rivers in Valinor run more slowly than those at home, meandering along their winding paths through the forest and down to the sea. Unhurried, Siril describes them in kinder moments; when she is feeling less charitable, _sluggish_.

She wonders what Laerwen thinks, now that she is here to see them at last.

From behind, Laerwen looks like a painting: a lone figure before the river, all gold and silver in the dim green light of the forest. Her hair is longer than it was when Siril left, streaming down past her hips; her robes flow the rest of the way to the ground and brush the roots and tufts of grass at her feet. It is startling to see her so impractically dressed: when was the last time Siril saw her clothed in anything besides her leggings and leathers?

Laerwen does not turn as she approaches, though Siril has made no effort to be silent. She merely stares downstream as though to wend her way along back to the sea, back over the waves, onto the path that opens only in one direction.

Siril comes to stand beside her, near enough to feel the warmth of Laerwen’s skin. They do not need to speak, not even to touch, for their spirits to find one another, and something eases in the air between them: a recognition, a relief at sharing the same space. Laerwen takes a deep breath in and out, her robes rippling with the motion of her chest, and bends to settle something into the water.

Siril squints at it – it seems to be a tiny boat, crudely woven out of twigs and a leaf. They watch it make its way slowly downstream, and Siril wonders if they are both thinking the same thing: that their own river would have carried it out of sight before they could blink twice.

“Do you seek a homeward route already?” She breaks the silence at last. “So soon after your arrival?”

She meant it to sound playful, but the words come out heavier than she expected, more serious. Laerwen cannot go home, no – but she can regret her decision to come here.

Laerwen sighs, long and deep, and turns at last. “No,” she says, her hand finding Siril’s own as easily as drawing breath. “Rather, perhaps I would if home were yet what it once was, but . . . that world is gone now. That life is finished.” She brings her other hand up to cradle Siril’s between them, her touch light and almost questioning, as though comparing its weight and feel to her memories.

“For both of us,” Siril says. Laerwen’s eyes have strayed to her abdomen, and though she is clothed she knows exactly where they have landed: the scars that were once the wounds that tore her away from the home and life she knew. Her time there was over long before Laerwen’s own, and yet –

“I would have gone back,” she says abruptly. “If I could.”

“I know.” Laerwen lifts her hand very gently to her own lips, brushes them over each knuckle in turn. Siril shivers at the touch, more potent than ever after being withheld for so long. “I never doubted it. _You_ did not choose to leave.”

She looks up and over the water again, and Siril sees it abruptly through her eyes: unhurried, yes; peaceful; sluggish. Quiet and calm, with no danger lurking in the darkness, no warriors waiting for command. Nothing to do, nothing to justify the tight braids and the practical leggings . . . nothing but peace and idleness.

“You did not abandon your kingdom,” Siril says. Laerwen has said nothing of the sort, but why waste the words, when they both know what she cannot bring herself to voice aloud?

Laerwen laughs, but her voice and her lips quaver. “How do you know that?”

“Because I know you,” says Siril. “I bade you promise to come to me here, but I knew I could not expect you until you were no longer needed at home. And now . . .” She shrugs expansively. “You are here. So you are not.”

Laerwen says nothing for a long moment, turning away to look out upon the river again. “Look at that,” she says, pointing to where her boat has meandered into a thicket of lilies, trapped between two leaves. “Can you imagine what would happen if our barrels moved as slowly at home?”

“Thirteen dwarves would not have escaped our wine cellars?”

Her words have the effect she hoped for; Laerwen jerks upright with a startled laugh, then turns around to look at her. “How – Did Legolas tell you?”

Siril shakes her head, already regretting her jest. “Gimli.”

“ _Ah._ ” Laerwen winces, but at least this sorrow is simpler, easier to bear. “Gimli.”

Legolas.

His name flashes unspoken between them, and Siril draws Laerwen in closer with the hand still clasped in her own. “I wish I could have said farewell to him,” Laerwen says quietly.

“You did, from what he told me,” Siril assures her. “He did not begrudge you your continued presence in Middle-earth; they both knew you would stay until you felt it was right to leave. As did I.” She cannot help adding that last, for what good it might do.

“It did feel right,” Laerwen says softly, “when the time came. And it seems I am needed here as well. But I cannot . . .” She trails off, and makes an aborted gesture as though to throw something else into the water, but even that falls limp, her free hand dropping back to her side. “I wish . . .”

“You wish you could take his pain from him.” As she always has. She would put herself between Legolas and the world: Siril remembers nights watching her pace dizzy circles when Legolas’s patrol had yet to return; remembers opening their door late in the night to him when he could not find peace to sleep. Laerwen would fight any foe for Legolas, but always his foes have been beyond her means.

“I wish I could storm into Aulë’s halls and bring him back,” she murmurs. “I wish I could stop time and hold us all safe in one perfect moment. I wish I could go all the way back, keep Legolas from ever departing for Imladris” – She pulls her hand out of Siril’s in a fit of agitated motion and holds it for a long time in a tense fist – and then releases it all at once, her shoulders slumping as the tension drains away. “But I know I cannot.”

“You can be here.” Siril reaches up to brush a lock of hair from Laerwen’s temple and then follows it all the way down, sifting her fingers through the loose tresses. “You can be here with him. With us.”

Laerwen turns to face Siril again and rests a hand against her neck. “It is all I have yearned for for a thousand years,” she whispers. “So why is it so daunting now?”

“It has been long,” Siril says simply. A thousand years since their parting, longer yet since Legolas’s birth – and ages and lifetimes since they last felt the freedom of safety. Indeed, in all her life, has Laerwen ever felt free? She gazes back out across the water and points to where Laerwen’s tiny boat has finally extracted itself from the thicket of lilies and returned to making its ambling way down the river. _Unhurried._ “But we have time to find our way through it.”

“Time,” Laerwen echoes. She does not follow Siril’s gaze to the river; rather she leans closer in and presses her forehead against Siril’s. Her grey eyes are pools of emotion, yearning and regret and melancholy hope, but their gaze remains steady on Siril’s own. “Yes,” she says softly, as though trying out the sound of the words. “We have so much time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Below, see: my clumsy attempts to watercolor the mood I wanted for this scene. :) A little silly, but I had fun.


End file.
